


Amas Veritas

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Practical Magic Fusion, F/M, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 10:36:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5124389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s your price?”</p><p>He opens his mouth, but no word come so he closes it. He tries a second time, “I don’t know. Isn’t the first born a thing or…?”</p><p>Emma makes a face. “No, gross. Something else.” She pouts, then she adds. “How about your happiest day? Does it seem like a fair trade to you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amas Veritas

Emma loves a lot of things about being a witch.

Potion-making when you wear glasses doesn’t make the list.

She sighs as she has to wipe them on her tank top for what feels like the hundredth time, the steam making it impossible for her to see what she’s doing. It’s been year since she’s made a mistake with a potion, and she would very much not make one simply because she can’t see anything. It’s not fair, that Ingrid isn’t letting her fix her own eyes with magic – it would make everyone’s life easier, seriously. Or she could wear contacts instead. That would be easier, too.

She’s counting the number of time she needs to stir – six times clockwise, eight times counter clockwise – when someone rings the bell, startling her. The cat meows unhappily, woken up from his afternoon nap, and Emma sighs at the idea of dealing with a client. Ingrid usually is the one taking care of them, only asking Emma to read tea leaves or Elsa to see the future with palm reading. Mostly, they just make potions they’ll sell online, and help with cursing people.

“I’ll be there in a minute!” Emma yells, to be heard from outside, before she focuses back on her potion. Once she has stirred the right amount of time, she puts a lid on her cauldron and reduces the flame. She grabs a towel to wipe her hands before she pets the cat, obviously still upset.

She doesn’t know who she expected when she opened the door, but it wasn’t this. They are used to desperate women and mourning widows and dubious teenagers – those people are most of their clientele, after all. What Emma isn’t used to is a man about her age, looking perfectly normal but for his widened, frantic eyes and the kind of messy hair that comes from tugging it too many times. He opens his mouth when his eyes land on her, and something tells Emma she wasn’t what he was expecting, either.

“Are you a witch?”

Emma tries not to laugh, but the snort escapes her lips anyway even if she manages to hide it behind a cough. She smiles, a little, because everyone knows 410 Mist Haven Street is where the witches live. They have a reputation.

“Yes, I am.”

“Can you help? My mother is dying and – maybe you can help?”

Only then does she notice his accent, mostly because it sounds familiar. It takes a few more seconds before she connects it to Maureen Jones, who lives in the cottage by the sea and often buys potions against slugs, because she trusts that more than the things you find at the grocery store. And because it’s organic. Even Ingrid laughs at that one.

Emma didn’t know Maureen Jones had a son – as far as she can tell, the woman has been living alone for years, and Emma only knows because Ruby the waitress is a gossip, and doesn’t care if the gossips fall into a witch’s ears as long as the witch listens. Emma wonders what kind of son leaves his mother for years though, only to come back when she’s dying but – oh well, she isn’t one to judge, really.

“What’s your price?”

He opens his mouth, but no word come so he closes it. He tries a second time, “I don’t know. Isn’t the first born a thing or…?”

Emma makes a face. “No, gross. Something else.” She pouts, then she adds. “How about your happiest day? Does it seem like a fair trade to you?”

The man frowns, obviously confused – Emma would do it for free, really, if only because she likes Maureen. But Ingrid says magic always comes with a price, and it doesn’t have to be money. Elsa and Emma have dressed a list of prices they can ask – happiest memory, most precious token, a lock of hair – if they ever need to make a trade. It does come in handy, from time to time, when the house is empty and they have to deal with a client on their own. Emma has never taken someone’s happiest day before, but there is nothing like the present.

“If it seems like a fair trade to you,” he replies.

Emma nods then, and closes the door on his face before she goes back to the kitchen. Her potion can wait, but she would rather not burn the kitchen to the ground when she leaves the house. Plus, she needs to grab some stuff, opening one cabinet to take the emergency kit – it looks like a normal emergency kit from the outside, but it’s full of potions and dried leaves and everything they need when they’re called on an emergency. A life-saver, really.

The man looks relieved when she opens the door again and – okay, there’s a reason why Ingrid is the one dealing with clients. Emma just isn’t a people person. Which probably comes with living in a house with only other witches and her son for as long as she remembers, and only speaking to clients and to Ruby. She isn’t exactly the most sociable person in town. (Also, she’s a witch; nobody wants to be friends with a witch.)

“I didn’t know Maureen was sick,” she says as she locks the door behind her.

“How–?”

She does laugh this time. “Your accent. Not everything is magical.”

She leads the way down the street and toward the beach, used to wandering the little streets of Storybrooke. He follows, just a few feet behind, and for a moment it’s easy to forget she is not alone – she breathes in the salty air, lets the wind plays with her hair, eyes closing as she takes it all in. Her powers are always more effective the closer she is to the sea, the same way Elsa’s are during the coldest of winters – she draws her energy from the waves, the sand, the cries of seagulls above her head. With a sigh of happiness, she opens her eyes, only to see the man now walking next to her.

“How are you going to take my happiest day?” he asks. “What if it’s already happened?”

“It hasn’t,” she replies simply – she can feel it, happiness in some memories, but never the bliss and perfection of the best day of one’s life. It will come; it always does. And when it comes, she will be there to collect her price, and they will be even.

“How does it work?”

There is curiosity in his voice, and Emma frowns at him. People don’t usually ask that many questions – either they believe and they accept everything blindly, or they don’t and they judge instead of questioning. It throws her off balance, and so Emma recoils the way she always does – walls around her heart and her mind, closing off to the world.

“It just does,” she replies, purposefully cryptic.

Truth is, she couldn’t explain even if she tried – she can feel it, the magic pulsing in her veins, the power she draws from nature and within herself. There is no explanation to it, no scientific logic behind it either. She’s a witch, and she can do witchy things. End of the story.

She doesn’t sigh of relief when they make it to the cottage, but it’s a close thing.

 

…

 

Emma grabs a candle on the stand, its light blue catching her eyes – when she raises it to her nose, the soft perfume of lavender curls up her lips. It’s not often she visits the farmer’s market, especially with the vegetable patch they have in the garden; most of the time, it’s almost enough to feed them, even if they buy some food in town once in a while.

Sister Astrid smiles at her from the other side of the stand, one of the few nuns not to have a problem with living so close to a coven of witches. Emma sees the curiosity in her eyes, and it amuses her – everything that ruffles Mother Superior’s feathers amuses her and the other witches.

“I’ll take this one. Two lemongrass ones, too.”

“It will be ten dollars.”

Emma puts the candles in her bag before handing Sister Astrid the ten-dollar bill. She eyes the other trinkets on the stand, both curious and appalled – little wooden crosses and bottles of holy water, among other things. The only reason she buys her candles from the nuns is because it’s local and handmade, far better than anything coming from a factory; she has no doubt the nuns picture her as some wild women dancing naked during the full moon, even if Emma is one of their regular customers. Whatever, really. She does appreciate not being burnt at the pike, and accepts the gossips if it keeps her away from bonfires.

“Have a nice day,” Sister Astrid grins. “And may the Lord be with you.”

Emma smirks. “For his sake, I hope not.”

She walks away, knowing without seeing it that Sister Astrid’s face fell at her reply. A smirk curls up her lips, blossoming into a grin when Tink jogs toward her, Henry following suite. He has a lollipop in his mouth, because of course Tink would buy candy first chance she gets, and smirks up at her with the most innocent face in the world. Damn it.

“Did you get the candles?” Tink asks.

Emma nods, “Yeah, as usual. Did you find something interesting?”

“Not really, no. Old Zelena is giving us a run for our money in the crazy department though,” Rink replies with a roll of the eyes.

Old Zelena has always been a problem to them – she isn’t a witch, but she looks the part, with all the bad stereotypes associated to it, and the right amount of paranoia to predict the end of the world about every three days or so. It would be entertaining, if it wasn’t so damn annoying all the time. Emma believes half the reason the coven has such a bad reputation is because of Zelena, really. Which isn’t fair and –

“Emma?”

Emma reacts to the sound of her name, turning her head only for her eyes to widen at the sight of Killian a few feet away from her. He waves, a little awkwardly, and Emma notices the awkwardness comes from the stiffness of his hand, among other things. How she hadn’t realised he has a prosthetic hand, Emma doesn’t know, but truth is she was too busy trying to save his mother’s live to really care about anything else that day.

Why she cares now is a mystery to her, though.

“Who’s that?” Henry asks at the same time Tink says, “Oooh who’s _that_?” and it’s impressive, really, how they ask the same question but manage to pour opposite feelings into their voice. Emma rolls her eyes at them both, on principle.

“Maureen Jones’ son,” she replies simply, before she takes a few steps toward Killian. “Hello.”

“Hi,” he replies, and grins. “I didn’t know you come here.”

“Not often. Just buying some stuff once in a while.”

He nods at her reply, before his eyes settle above her shoulder, not doubt glancing at Tink and Henry behind her. And there it is again, the open curiosity she saw in his eyes the day he came to her for help. “How many of you are there?”

“Five, plus my son. Glinda is spending a little time with another coven in Kansas though.” He nods again, but she changes the subject before he asks more questions. “How’s your mother?”

“Fine. Better. Thank you.”

“Good. Good. I have to go so…”

Killian smiles at her, soft, gentle, and her heart misses a beat. “I’ll see you around then?”

“I guess, yeah.”

She offers him a tight-lipped smile before she goes back to the others, wrapping an arm around Henry’s shoulders to push him along the way. They have the candles they came to buy after all, there is no need to dwell here any long, lest they want the townspeople to get wary of them.

She can’t help but glance one last time at Killian over her shoulder, and ignores Henry’s suspicious glares as well as Tink’s knowing smirks all the way back home. It’s not an easy task, but she ignores them all the same.

 

…

 

Twice is a coincidence.

Three times is a pattern.

The beach is empty that time of the year – not that it’s very crowded during the summer either, but some families and groups of teenagers like to come there when the sun is bright and warm. Not that Emma can blame them, but she likes it better when she’s alone, toes dipping in the sand and eyes lost in the horizon as she lets her mind wander.

Henry is at school and everyone else is doing this or that thing, and today wasn’t a busy day with clients, so Emma allowed herself a much needed break. Just her and the ocean and her wandering thoughts, exactly what she needs after the buzz of the full moon. She’s still a little drunk on tequila and midnight spells, mind blurry around the edges in the most wonderful ways.

Which, of course, means she doesn’t stay alone for long. Someone sits next to her in the sand and, when she turns her head, Emma isn’t even surprise to find blue eyes and a smirk. His mother does live on the cottage by the beach, after all, and so does he – he probably saw her by the window, or something.

“Are you stalking me?”

His grin widens. “What if I am?”

“I can turn you into a toad.”

He laughs and – it’s not as much of a laugh as it is a deep chuckle, warm and low as he flashes his teeth at her. He shakes his head too, and runs his good hand through his hair before he shrugs. “I will take the risk then.” But then, less brash, he adds, “I saw you when I came home, I wanted to make sure you weren’t too cold out there.”

That’s when Emma notices the plaited blanket by his side in the sand and – she isn’t exactly charmed by his attention, because she needs more than a blanket and cocky words for that, but she does like the gesture. It’s not often a Muggle meets her, learns she’s a witch, and doesn’t immediately do everything in his power to stay away from her. It makes for a nice change, one Emma isn’t used to.

“Thanks, that’s – really kind of you.”

“I try my best,” he replies. Pink blossoms high on his cheeks then, and his ears are a little redder too, and the shy look is better on him that the smug one, comes to think about it. Not that Emma has any preference on the matter but, you know, always better a nice dude than an arrogant asshole, really. “What are you doing here on you own, anyway?”

“Meditating, mostly.”

Well, she was, and he did ruin that for her. But she’s stayed long enough as it is to recharge her batteries for a week or so, if she doesn’t force on her magic too much in the next couple of days. At least that’s something, even if she wishes she could have stayed alone a little while longer.

“I’ve always found the sea calming too,” he says, which – it’s not exactly what she meant, but Emma knows better than to correct him. He wouldn’t understand either way, only other witches and warlocks do. Emma doesn’t blame him for it, though.

They settle into a comfortable silence after than, sitting side by side and staring at the ocean. It’s oddly calming, in ways Emma doesn’t understand, so of course it scares her half to death – she isn’t used to spending time with men, not anymore. It’s been so long since Graham, and Henry is her son so he doesn’t really count. It’s been her and the coven for so long that Emma is more than rusty but. She isn’t blind. She knows Killian is interested, even without the entire seeking-her-out-to-make-sure-she’s-warm thing.

Emma isn’t sure what he can see in her, beside some weird fascination for the occult, but she doesn’t grow suspicious the way she would with any other man. No, she – she wants to trust him, and maybe that thought is the scariest of them all. She isn’t used to trusting people, especially since it always leads to disappointment and heartbreak. (And death.)

She doesn’t want to trust Killian – insufferable smirk, kind eyes, curious questions Killian and the way he seems to care about her. She doesn’t want that kind of problems in her life, when it’s already so complicated as it is.

(And why does it feel so right, too?)

So Emma does as she does best.

She stands up and runs.

 

…

 

Merlin lives about ten minutes away from Storybrooke, his house hidden within the forest – he doesn’t like people, or so he says, but Emma knows it has little to do with people and a lot to do with him being a warlock called Merlin. His parents had a really questionable sense of humour the day they named him, and he always gets hassled by people because of that. The name alone gives him so much street cred, Emma kinda is jealous of it sometimes.

“Ah,” he laughs when he opens the door that day. “I knew your son would develop his powers soon.”

Emma rolls her eyes, and elbows her way past him and into his house. “I told you, I won’t let you turn him into one of your apprentices. Henry stays with us.”

“So he did develop his powers?”

Emma smirks, and singsongs a simple, “ _Maybe_ ” that has Merlin grinning too.

In no time, the kettle is whistling and Merlin pours her a mug of tea – casual, non-leave-reading tea, he swears – and the both of them sit at the table. Emma grabs one of the cookies Merlin put into a plate, and she munches on it as she gives him the latest news about her coven as well as some funny stories about some of the other witches and warlocks they know all around the country. Emma knows him well enough to know he won’t be fooled for long, though, and indeed a few minutes later Merlin sighs and puts his mug back on the table.

“What is troubling your mind, Emma?”

She sighs too, and looks away from him. “It’s about the curse…”

“There is no curse.”

She rolls her eyes, and isn’t surprised to find them a little wet and a little blurry – even after all those years, it’s still a difficult subject for her to talk about. “Don’t do that to me. We both know Graham didn’t die of a heart attack.”

He was too young, too healthy – he couldn’t just die all of a sudden, and Emma never believed what the doctors told her. Perhaps it’s taking it a step too far that to believe she is cursed and all the men she loves are doomed to die but. She’s a witch. If she doesn’t believe in such things, then nobody else will, and she knows that bastard Neal actually got lucky but running away from her before it was too late. The irony is bitter against her teeth.

“The only reason Kristoff is still alive,” she goes on, “is because Anna is a Squib, we both know it.”

(Harry Potter may not be completely accurate, but it did give them ‘Muggle’ and ‘Squib’ as words to use in their everyday life, which is something.)

“Even if there is a curse, what of it?” He doesn’t wait for her answer, and chuckles. “You met someone.”

Emma gives up on all pretences then, and folds her arms on the table, leaning closer to Merlin. They don’t break eye contact for long seconds, as if judging the other and waiting to see who is going to give up first. They do that a lot, and Emma loses every time.

“You can see the future. Tell me what future you see for him.”

“It doesn’t work like that and you know it.”

“It will work this time.”

Merlin sighs once again, but Emma sees the cracks in his cool demeanour. They’ve known each other for years, and it comes with its perks sometimes. And, indeed, a few seconds later Merlin grabs her mug, and throws away the liquid – so much for it being regular tea – before he looks down, turning the mug this or that way. He frowns, tilts his head to the side, frowns some more.

“He will live,” is the only thing he says when he hands Emma the mug back.

She waits for more, but he doesn’t add anything, and she grows restless and impatient. “That’s it? That’s seriously all you can give me?”

“Isn’t it enough?”

Emma opens her mouth but no word comes out, so instead she huffs and grabs her bag. Merlin doesn’t even try to stop her as she storms outside and slams the door behind her. She slams the door of her car, too, and the bug groans a little under the violence of such a gesture – Emma replies with slapping the wheel, which does nothing but hurt the palm of her hand and calm her down a little.

It’s only when she’s back home than it dawns on her Merlin read her future, not Killian’s.

 

…

 

“Someone’s here,” Elsa says, seconds before the bell rings.

“Stop doing this, it creeps me out,” Tink says from her set next to Henry, both of them leaning over a math textbook – stressful written exam in two weeks, everybody is helping as much as they can so he gets good grades. Emma scoffs and bumps her hip with Elsa’s, before she leaves the kitchen to answer the door. Ingrid beats her to it, of course – still more of a people person than anyone else in this house – but then turns around to frown at her.

“It’s for you.”

Which – it means _it’s a man_ , which means _it’s Killian_ , and Emma throws Ingrid a grin as she walks past her. If they had it Ingrid’s way, they would all stay single for the rest of their lives, and there is no doubt they would all become like Zelena in a matter of a decade or two. A dreadful thought if there even was one, really.

Not that Emma has any intention of changing her marital status any time soon. Merlin’s predictions only come true if you let them, and Emma has no intention of testing the limits of the curse. She already has Graham’s death on her conscience, she won’t have another man die just because his smiles warm her from the inside out.

“What are you doing here?” she asks when she opens the door and is offered a boyish grin. Boyish grin that disappears as soon as she asks her question, and Emma would feel guilty but – it’s for his own good, really. If she explained it to him, she’s certain he would understand, but he would also ask too many questions and nobody wants that.

“Am I interrupting something?” Killian asks instead of replying, and glances above her shoulder.

Emma isn’t the tiniest bit surprised, when she looks above her own shoulder, to see everyone else spying on them with different degrees of subtlety. She glares at them all before taking a few steps forward so she stands on the porch with Killian and closes her door behind her.

“We’re not really fond of men – in general.” And then, again, “What are you doing here?”

He hesitates, long enough that his hand rises and goes to scratch that spot beneath his ear – a sign she’s coming to associate with nervousness, and it would be endearing if she allowed herself such feelings for him. At it is, she forces herself to lock away any kind of feelings toward Killian, the mantras of _it’s for his own good_ playing over and over in her head like a broken record of sorts. Fake it until you make it, or so they say.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay after – the other day.”

“I’m fine,” she replies with annoyance in her voice. “Thanks.”

She doesn’t want him to care or worry. She doesn’t want him to grow fond of her, or even get ideas about what their relationship could become if he pushes just hard enough – it can only end in his death and her disappointment, so what is the point, really? Emma has never been selfish enough to try her luck against the Reaper, and she won’t start now.

“Are you sure? Because–”

“ _I’m fine_.”

She hates him for making it so difficult for her – hates herself even more for the way his face falls at the harshness of her words, and the underlying meaning between them. He understands what she doesn’t say out loud, what she can’t say out loud, and takes a few steps back with a shake of his head. He looks like a lost puppy, all of a sudden, and it could be enough for Emma to come back on her words, if the situation were different. But it isn’t, so…

“I’m sorry. I misinterpreted things, but it won’t happen again.”

And with that he’s turning around, head in his shoulders as he climbs down the few stairs leading to the porch and makes his way toward the street. Emma watches him go, and wishes he had bartended the saddest day of his life instead because–

Because this day is today.

 

…

 

Emma watches as Tink makes her fairy dust necklaces, always fascinated by how calm and collected the younger woman can be in those moments, when she’s bubbling with energy and happiness most of the time. There is nothing of the fae folks in the sparkling powder that fills the little bottle, but they sell better that way on the Internet, and even witches have to pay their bills at the end of the week.

The house is relatively quite today, mostly because Ingrid is in the middle of a séance with one of their regulars – all the other women gathered in the attic for an hour or two, if only for Ingrid to do her job in peace. Henry is at school for now, and Elsa has apparently decided that it was as good a moment as ever to braid Emma’s hair, so she sits between her heart-sister’s legs, on the floor, while the other woman’s cold fingers work a magic of their own in her hair.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Elsa asks after a while, because apparently it doesn’t take psychic abilities to be aware of Emma’s clouded mind.

She almost blew up a cauldron not two days ago because of her wandering thoughts, and has been on edge for a little while longer – ever since Killian’s visit. It isn’t all that difficult to join the dots and put two and two together from there, so Emma doesn’t even care that Elsa knows of her troubles.

Does she want to talk about it, though? It is, indeed, a very good question. She is used to keeping her problems to herself, especially since secrets are hard to keep in this house, and she knows of the power of a whisper. That, and the fact that, even after all those years in the coven, Emma still is wary of opening her heart to someone, anyone. It’s not that she doesn’t trust her fellow witches – it’s that she doesn’t trust anyone, period. Save Henry, of course, but she won’t plague her son with matters of her heart.

So she sighs, and rubs her nose. Tink’s hands slow down, an obvious sign that she’s now focusing more on the conversation happening a few feet away from her than on her task, and – Emma can’t really blame her. Their lives have been dull of any particularly interesting matter lately, so they would take the tiniest scrap of gossip at this point.

“I don’t know what to think, really,” is all she finds to say, and it is the truth. She feels lost at sea, when she stops and allows herself to think about it – like something is wrong and she needs to mend it. She has no idea why or how, or perhaps she likes to pretend she does, with her visit to Merlin still clear in her memory.

But it can’t be right. Killian’s future can’t be woven in hers so tightly, or else it would mean – it would mean things Emma doesn’t want to think now, doesn’t want to believe. Hope can’t be blossoming inside her ribcage, only to be torn and burnt in a couple of days, weeks, months. She can’t allow herself to believe – she’s never believed in The One up until now, and she refuses to start now. It’s ridiculous. If Graham wasn’t, then no one can be, because her love for him was pure, and his feelings for her were equally true.

If he didn’t survive her, Emma doesn’t think anyone else can.

“He went to high school with Ruby,” Tink provides all of a sudden. Neither of the witches went to school, all of them home-schooled by Ingrid for obvious reasons. “She says he was in the Navy up until the…” Tink finishes her sentence with a motion of her wrist, and Emma winces at the idea of him losing his hand at sea. Of him losing his hand, period, because she can’t imagine any instance of it not being painful.

“What else did she say?” Elsa asks.

Emma glares at her over her shoulder, _not helping_ , but Elsa offers one of her innocent smiles. Henry obviously took after her on that one, come to think about it – what a bad influence they all have on him, really.

“Not much,” Tink replies, oblivious to the silent exchange. “Had a brother, Navy too until he died. Came back when Maureen started being really sick. I think he’s a writer now or something? I’m not sure.” Tink stops, long enough to pour some purple fairy dust into a bottle. “Apparently he was dating someone back in the day, but it ended badly. So you’ve got that working for you in the common traits department.”

“Funny,” Emma replies, dry.

She doesn’t want to wonder about what little information Tink just gave her, doesn’t want to show even an ounce of interest, but it’s all she can think of now that they are talking about it. He fascinates her, perhaps just as much as she fascinates him, and here is her greatest weakness in this story – it is so rare, finding a man that picks her interest long enough without her growing bored. It’s even rarer, for a man to be interested in her, even knowing her true nature. Especially knowing her true nature.

“How long has it been?” Elsa asks.

There is the snapping sound of a tiny elastic being wrapped around her hair next to Emma’s ear, and it distracts her for a second or so. It doesn’t distract her enough to pretend she didn’t understand Elsa’s question, though, and she knows her well enough to know Elsa wouldn’t leave it at that anyway.

“Seven years,” she replies.

Seven years since Graham’s death, seven years since Emma closed her heart off for good. It seems like yesterday, but also like a lifetime ago. She has changed so much, in seven years, has grown more confident as a witch, a mother, a woman, that it is hard to remember how she was back then. Who she was back then.

“Maybe it’s time,” Elsa says simply, wisdom in her smile and gentleness in her smile.

Emma tries to smile too, but she chokes on it, as always when thinking of Graham. It doesn’t hurt as much as it used too, though, more like a dull pain than the heart-wrenching agony it used to be. She mourned him, but perhaps it is time to start anew.

Perhaps…

“What if he dies?”

“What if he doesn’t?”

And than, more than the other alternative, scares Emma half to death.

 

…

 

Her hand hesitantly stays in the air for a few seconds, before she gathers the courage to knock on the door. Technically, Emma knows things can not go badly from there – at least, that’s what she’s hoping. And even if they do, she has no doubt at least one of the witches will curse him to hell and back for such an affront, which – it’s not that she’s cautioning such an idea per se, but it would make her feel a little better. Maybe.

Maureen is the one to open the door, black hair falling into heavy ringlets around her face, her features lightening up when her eyes fall on Emma. Only then does Emma see the striking likeness between mother and son – they share the same blue eyes, the same smile, even something in the way they hold themselves.

It leaves her speechless, if only for a moment, not long enough for Maureen to notice anything out of the ordinary. Or if she does, she’s too polite to point it out. Instead, Emma smiles too, and hands the two bottles she’s carrying.

“Your monthly slug-repellent, as always.”

“Oh, thank you dear.” The older woman takes both bottles from her, before she adds, “Come, my wallet is in the kitchen.”

So Emma does, and soon she finds herself with a few more bills in her pockets and a mug of boiling coffee between her hands – saying no to Maureen Jones is impossible, something Emma learnt a long time ago. The coffee is bitter and burns her tongue, but not as bitter as the disappointment settling in her bones when Killian is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he is avoiding her, and Emma can’t even blame him for that.

She must not be as subtle as she thought, for Maureen says, “He’s running an errant in town, he will be back shortly.”

Her cheeks turn a darkest shade of pink, both at Maureen’s word and at her knowing gaze, and Emma ducks her head to stare at the bottle of her mug instead. She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to feel about Killian’s mother knowing – _knowing_ – but Maureen is one of the few people in this town not to act like she wants a remake of the Trials of Salem, so. Her lack of reaction may count as her blessing. Perhaps. Emma is developing a headache over this.

The front door opens and closes then, Emma’s mouth doing the same as her heart starts racing against her ribcage. She takes a sip of coffee to hide her reaction, but only burns her mouth further more, and curses under her breath. Not her finest moment, and that’s how Killian finds her – mug to her lips, eyes widening like a deer in the highlights.

At least he doesn’t look any better, eyes just as wide as hers, left speechless with his mouth open. He blinks, once, twice, before he shakes his head and reaches inside the pocket of his leather jacket, only to hand his mother a few coins and a receipt from the post office. Maureen looks between the two of them before she leaves the room, with an obvious smile and roll of the eyes.

Emma stands up then, with an awkward cough and even more awkward smile. No doubt it must look like a grimace instead, but Killian still takes a few steps closers to her.

“Hi,” she tells him, and it sounds like a croak of those frogs Tink keeps in the garden.

She winces, even more so when Killian doesn’t smile – he frowns instead, and it takes all of Emma’s willpower not to brush her thumb over the wrinkles between his brows, not to caress his cheek until he grins at her, until the dimples in his cheeks are back.

“Why are you here?”

Emma forces herself not to wince again, not to fidget. Instead, she keeps her head high, keeps staring at him even as she ponders on her words, wonders what to tell and what to keep to herself. In the end, the truth wins – she needs to be honest with him, if she wants him to understand, if she wants him to forgive if not forget.

“I was 23 when I met Graham. He was the town’s sheriff, and he kept getting complains about us, so he would always be around just in case and – we started dating along the way. It was nice, you know? Henry was 5, so Graham would take him to the park sometimes, and the coven liked him and… _I_ like him too. And then he died.” Killian tenses at that, but he also tilts his head to the side, as if giving all the attention her tale requires. “There is a curse on our coven. Nobody talks about it, and we pretend it doesn’t exist,s but we all know – if one of us fall in love, then she’s doomed to lose the ones she loves. Ingrid’s sister died of a broken heart because of it. So when you arrived…”

“You think I’m going to die,” Killian provides for her.

Emma shakes her head and – that’s when it becomes difficult to explain, because how do you lay it to someone that your warlock friend, whose name is _Merlin_ , read your future and saw them in it? How do you go on saying ‘I think you’re The One for me and there is no going back from it, and I’m so scared of what it means’? How do you do all this, without sounding like you’re crazy, or making things up? How?

She wets her lips, before she tries. “We believe – my friends believe you won’t die, not if – not if our love is true.”

His frown deepens, only for understanding to settle on his feature in a kind of _ah_ moment. His lips twist as he moves forward and closer to her, stepping in her personal space. Emma has to look up, slightly, to keep eye contact with him, but it’s hard to when she just wants to stare at the grin blossoming on his lips at last.

“Your friends think we’re soulmates.”

She crunches up her nose at the word, but it’s hard to come up with another term to describe the bound that could be between them. Soulmates sounds – weak, in a way. “More than that,” is the only thing she finds to say, before she adds, “But it’s not perfect science and–”

“I could die,” Killian nods. “I also could not.”

“You could not,” she mirrors. “I’d like it if you didn’t.”

The confession is a little too much too soon for her but – Emma did swear to be honest to him, and so she is. And oh, oh, how much the smile he offers her is worth it, how much the sparkle in his eyes makes up for the knots in her stomach. Even more so when he all but pounces on her, mouth against hers in a hungry kiss than has her gasp and moan as she wraps her arms around his neck, pulls him closer to her.

One of his arms snakes around her waist while the other hand tangles in her hair, as Killian tilts his head to the side to deepen the kiss, tongue pressed to her mouth to seek entrance. She opens her mouth to him, sighs into the kiss, forgets about everything else but the taste of mint on his tongue and the smell of sea salt on his skin. It leaves her breath – he leaves her breathless and Emma steps back if only to inhale deeply, forehead pressed to his.

Her fingers travel down his neck, settling on his collarbones, feeling his heart beneath her palms and – “ _Oh_.”

“What?”

Killian’s voice is hoarse, wrecked, and it could distract her from her thoughts, if it wasn’t further proof. She smiles, and bites down on her lip to swallow down a laugh. It still bubbles out of her, small and hopeful.

“Your happiest day.”

Killian leans back just enough to look at her in the eyes, eyebrows shooting up in surprise, before he laughs too. He laughs and kisses her again, and again, until Emma has to remember Maureen still is in a room somewhere, so having her way with Killian in the kitchen is out of the question.

“Aye. And it’s all yours,” he whispers against her lips.

 

…

 

Emma sits at the kitchen table with Henry, mugs of hot chocolate and bowls of cereals in front of them as they both try (and fail) to blink away sleep from their eyes. Monday mornings never are pretty, even more so after a full moon – Henry’s first with Merlin, much to the warlock’s delight – but school is school and so here they are. The fact that Tink dances her way through the kitchen, radio playing some pop song, isn’t helping at all. People who are functional before 9am are not to be trusted.

The door opens on Killian’s bed head, hair a mess as he scratches his beard and smiles her way. He drops a kiss on her temple and squeezes Henry’s shoulder before moving to the kitchen counter. Tink is ahead of him, though, offering him a cup of coffee and a grin – he only replies with a frown and a glare, just as puzzle as Emma is about Tink’s cheerfulness.

“Still alive, huh?” Tink asks him.

That manages to make Killian smiles, and he shares a knowing look with Emma – it’s been a month, but he’s made himself at home in the coven, much to Ingrid’s annoyance and to the other women’s delight. Thankfully, Henry has taken it all in stride, with a simple ‘Was about time, I’m happy for you, mom,’ when she told him.

“Still alive, indeed,” Killian replies, and takes a sip of coffee.


End file.
